


Of the neck I cannot catch

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Category: Dark City (1998)
Genre: Anna/Emma worship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mr. Hand learning life lessons, Mutual Healing, Serial Killer, Stalking, eventual reconcilliation, help my NOTP became my OTP, identity crisis, imagined rape and murder scenarios, more angst than can be dealt with, protagonist who can't work out if he wants to kill or love his romantic interest, someday there will be fluff maybe?, split personalities? sort of?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3321794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Left with the imprint of a serial killer that is slowly destroying him, Mr. Hand struggles to find the 'human soul' that his people died for. </p><p>The problem is that the only person who makes him feel anything has been erased, and the woman left in her place doesn't even know his name or face. Plagued by Murdoch's - and now his own - plans to hurt her, Mr. Hand watches her closely and tries to work out which thoughts are his own, and which belong to the persona that brought about the downfall of the Strangers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. filled with skilfully stuffed memories

Mr. Hand knows he doesn’t have long to live. A couple of days, a month maybe, there’s no way to tell. A great deal of uncertainty accompanies the burden of being the last Stranger left. It used to be the humans who didn’t know who they were, not really, whereas he’d held a purpose, been a Stranger; Now the title is hollow, unused by everyone but himself.           

The only identity he has now is that of John Murdoch, the killer. It leaves him with the memories of a man who murdered many a call girl, and was coming for his wife next. He’d had it all planned out, right down to the expression he knew she’d wear as he sliced into her. These deliciously human, horrific memories are slowly killing him.

Emma Murdoch: Another memory that no longer exists. She’s Anna now, Anna who works the night shift at the theatre and wears her hair a little differently to her past incarnation. She still has Emma’s face though, her body, and whenever Mr. Hand sees her he still feels the programmed urge to hurt her. All these other humans are meaningless to him, dull and unimportant, but she brings him the closest he has ever come to feeling human. He thinks. 

He’s still not sure what that means. 

But he’s trying to learn, rigorously, aggressively, and with more fervour than ever before. He wants to know if it was worth it: If losing the last of his kind in the pursuit of the elusive ‘human soul’ was as futile as it seems. He listens in on men discussing the women they desire, sees children run laughing through the streets, and watches mothers sweep infants up into their arms and fuss over them. Still he feels nothing.

Limited success has been found in Emma-now-Anna. It didn’t take him long to ascertain where she now inhabits, and only a few days to learn her routine. He watches her. Finds that he likes watching her. The sensation of _liking_ is new, initially unsettling, and he thinks enjoyable. But soon he finds it’s not enough. He wants to do more. 

Wanting is new too. He likes it.

He’s trying, for now, to determine whether these sensations are his own, or recollections of how John Murdoch felt in his fabricated memories. In the early hours of the morning, when Anna is hidden from him in her home, he sits on the bench of a nearby deserted, dimly lit street and closes his eyes. When he concentrates he is able to resurrect blurred images of her standing before him naked, sitting naked, lying naked, followed by twisted positions with her muscular thighs wrapped around his hips, her lips on his. Then, as she clenches around him and he shivers, she moans softly into his ear a loving ‘John’ and the moment vanishes. 

She’s a different woman; he’s a different man. She doesn’t even know his name, and though he could recite the life story of a woman with her face, he knows little about this Anna, nothing aside from that which he has observed. There may be no time for it, but he realises that he wants to learn more about her and how she makes him feel, has to learn if he’s ever going to stand a chance of working this soul business out. She may no longer be Emma, but he was never really John Murdoch either.

He continues to watch her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too lazy to come up with actual titles so I just steal from poems and shit, like the evil mastermind genius I am.
> 
> Title from 'Ariel' - Sylvia Plath  
> Chapter title from 'it is so long since my heart has been with yours' - e.e. cummings  
> I watched this film for the first time yesterday so any mistakes you noticed please point them out.


	2. Until I find the Only Flower

Soon, Mr. Hand stops paying attention to the rest of humanity. He and his kind spent an abundance of time watching different humans in all walks of life, moving through varying eras and roles like clockwork. He knows the answer cannot be found there. Instead, he focuses solely on Anna.

There’s a café opposite where she works. It’s run down and underfunded, constantly stinking of dirt, tobacco, and ground coffee. At night the fluorescent strip lighting bolted to the ceiling sputters on and off, and the radio drones out slow blues tunes that crackle with interference. He’s never had any interest in human luxury though, and John Murdoch was happy with the simple life too; the common preference is comforting.

More importantly, through the dirty windows of the shop, Mr. Hand has a clear view of Anna in her pale blue uniform, her new name etched onto the breast pocket. Every night he sits at that café with a coffee and watches her nap quietly at her booth counter, waking with impossible foresight whenever a customer draws close. He studies how she plasters on a smile, well accustomed to dealing with people like this. Though she’s only been doing it a few days, to her she’s been working this job for years.

At first he notices the obvious things: The kind of people she talks to in her free time, where she likes to spend that time, how she travels, and so on. He tries to compare her to his memories of Emma, but realises every time that the details are foggy, often absent even when he spends hours obsessing, trying to remember. Some things he knows for sure, like where they met, and how as a boy he used to watch a ferry dancing with light drift past on that very river. Other details are intangible, reminding him that none of it ever really happened.

Spending every possible second studying her, however, soon evolves into spotting the finer details. Used to having a consciousness shared amongst hundreds, he’s adept at absorbing information, and the observations come all at once, overwhelming him. He thinks constantly of the way her mouth twists in abashed happiness whenever a stranger shows her kindness, and takes note of how she always regrets not bringing a jacket to work to keep herself warm but never remembers to rectify her mistake the next day. When listening to her from a safe distance, he is sure that her speech patterns are ever so slightly different; she speaks more quickly and with more enthusiasm than Emma ever did, but is quieter in general.

It is in these minute habits and quirks that he thinks he’ll find the answer. Why he feels how he feels around her, why John Murdoch fell in love with her, how. He hears every night the real John Murdoch’s parting words to him. The human soul was not to be found in the head.

The heart then. But when his heart is now that of a serial killer, enraptured with the idea of murdering his wife and now Anna, will he still be able to find the human soul? He tries not to dwell on the possibility of failure, especially given his limited timeframe.

Every night he trails her back from work, drifting between shadows, never drawing suspicion; Watches her shiver and rub her exposed forearms, listening as she mutters to herself about remembering that damn jacket. In the day he stands on the seashore and watches her lean against the railing at the end of the pier, gazing off across the ocean. Sometimes the real John Murdoch joins her. They chat. He knows how to make her laugh.

It is here that Mr. Hand finds another human feeling. It is not dissimilar to that of the desire to kill her, but he responds differently. Rather than his heart fluttering and a nervous sweat breaking out across the skin of his forehead and neck, he feels his stomach clenching, his hands curling into fists, and he longs to hurt someone, yes, but for once it is not Anna.

He is always careful not to act upon these feelings. If he were to do so, no doubt he’d be caught, and that would cause trouble. He might no longer be able to watch her. She might get hurt in the process. Normally, this idea would excite him, but during those moments on the beach all craving for her death is replaced with the strange anxiety that crawls into the hollow of his chest.

He knows that this is a good thing, another fragment of humanity found, and yet he cannot help but dislike the sensation. He wishes that John Murdoch would stop making her laugh. Remembers when he used to make her laugh. Remembers again that that was never him, never happened. Feels the anxiety, new and all the more intense for it, strengthen.

He makes a decision. He decides that he’s going to try and make her laugh. He’s done with just watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'You are tired' - e.e. cummings.


	3. Where unrequited cravings play

Emma used to work as a singer in a club with moody lighting and appalling food, the patrons all turning up just to listen to her. Now Anna only ever goes there for dinner and the food is fantastic, the accompanying music instrumental. With no interest in good dining, Mr. Hand does not appreciate the change.

Following her inside one night, he slips onto a barstool beside her and takes off his hat, setting it down on the counter. She throws him a curious glance of appraisal, doesn’t recognise him, and returns to nursing her own drink. Tonight is her night off. She orders the same drinks every week. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks, mimicking the intonations and the accent of a man he watched say the same thing to her last week. She’d let him buy her two before excusing herself on account of having to get to work. Mr. Hand is hoping she will do the same with him; he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to resist the man in the back of his head telling him to ask her back to his apartment for a spot of light revenge.

She shakes her head, turns away from him in her seat a little. “Sorry,” she says, wearing her usual abashed smile though it’s more guarded now, cautious. “I’m seeing someone right now.” 

Mr. Hand runs over the past week of watching her in his head, sifting through all her interactions with men and women of an appropriate age. The only individual she’s had any regular contact with is the real John Murdoch. They went for coffee last Tuesday morning. Mr. Hand feels the anxiety come back, but chooses to ignore it this time. It’s his turn to try and make her laugh.

“Not like that,” he says, meaning it. If they were to involve themselves in anything considered romantic by humanity, it would be even harder to tell apart which thoughts were his own and which belonged to the imprint. “I would just like to buy you a drink, yes?”

He knows that she thinks he’s weird because she frowns at him the way she does at the old man on her street when he yells predictions of the end of the world, drawing spirals in the dirt of the pavement. “Sure,” she says eventually, shrugging, “why not?”

He orders two dry martinis. When her frown deepens, he realises it is customary to ask first, though he already knew her order. She seems to find that strange too. “Come here often?” She asks, possibly suspicious, possibly just making polite conversation. He nods.  
“There used to be a singer here. She was good.”  
“Oh. Perhaps I just never came at the right time; I’ve been coming here for months. I like the feel of things here. It feels… warmer than the rest of the city. Peaceful.”

Mr. Hand wonders if she’d find it peaceful if she knew who he is, what he is, what he’s been programmed to think of her. As she brushes her hair back over one shoulder, he looks over the curve of her neck, and all he can think of is the carving of swirls into flesh. How angry he was when she cheated on him. All that he’s done to prepare for finally hurting her.

Ignorant to his thoughts, she talks a little more, sips at her drink. Transitioning from watcher to an active player in her life leaves him quiet beside her, though she doesn’t seem to mind. Judging by the slope of her shoulders and how often she smiles, she feels safe here, familiar. He wonders if it has anything to do with having worked here in a past life. Once again, there’s no way to tell.

Three drinks later, courtesy of him, accompanied by her dinner, and Anna becomes increasingly emotive, brighter, less caught up in her head. It is a dizzying phenomenon for Mr. Hand, both because she is talking to him, and because he has never seen her like this. All those days of observation are rendered useless, because she’s different now, and he knows he can’t afford to be mentally paralysed for he must study her now as quickly and thoroughly as he can, before she slips back into herself. Yet he finds it tricky to be a wallflower in a conversation of two, and often forgets to respond in time, too busy documenting her speech to memory. 

She seems to find his distraction endearing, however, teasing him for it in her good mood. More revelations come, all at once. He realises this conversation will be unique to their two minds; no longer will hundreds of others share in this moment. It is theirs.

He starts forgetting that he wants to hurt her. There’s no time to simmer in John Murdoch’s old machinations, Anna demanding his full attention. “There’s this movie on at the moment,” she tells him when he mentions her work at the theatre, “that everyone watching keeps falling asleep to.” She laughs, by her own amusement, but Mr. Hand still feels a sense of smug pride to be the one with her as she does it. “More entertaining than the movie is going in there and watching a room full of snoring strangers. It’s rather surreal though.”

“I can imagine,” Mr. Hand says, wondering if he misses it: the days of controlling the human zoo, tuning the world to see what made it tick whilst being separate from it all. He’s been so caught up in studying Anna, he hasn’t had a chance to even miss his own kind. The endless nights of scrutinising artefacts of significant sentimental value, the moment of being part of a collective telepathic force, shaping a small world together: all of it seems very distant now. 

Before, he’d grown tired of having nothing of his own, no unique memories and no personal purpose. Now, even though he has Anna right where he’s always wanted her, all he can think about is what it was like to be part of a whole, and not to be quite so on his own. 

“Wait a minute,” Anna says, breaking him out of his reverie. “How did you know I work at the theatre?” He looks at her. Remembers that humans who follow other humans as he has her are considered criminals or madmen. He understands now why she found it strange that he knew her order. Though he’s spent his life examining humans in their zoo, now is the first time he has to cover it up. 

“Didn’t you mention it?” He tries, watching as her bright smile fades. 

“No,” she says, removing her arms from where she’d leant them on the bar top. “No. I didn’t.” 

Picking up her clutch bag, she stands. “I think I’d better get going,” she says, her voice hard and sharp, though he’s studied humans long enough to recognise fear in there too. Before he can so much as speak, she’s out of the door.

Mr. Hand is used to the humans who meet him finding him repulsive or frightening, but he’s never felt anything in response other than mild bemusement. However, watching her leave triggers other odd human discoveries. Memories of John Murdoch play back; recalling her storming out after their first fight about her betrayal; watching her leave every morning after, wondering if she’ll really come back, or if the mysterious lover will steal her away in the night. 

Feeling sick to his stomach, his throat clamming up, Mr. Hand decides he doesn’t want it anymore. Humanity can keep its soul. He realises something his people never did. The human soul is no glorious solution, but rather a tragic sickness. He refuses to spend his dying days in emotional turmoil. 

Besides, he didn’t even manage to make her laugh. He failed the test.

The next day, despite his resolution, he returns briefly to trailing after Anna. His mind is made up for him, however, when he discovers that she has changed her routine and habits. He cannot find her. Upon investigation, he even discovers that she has quit her job at the theatre, or changed her shift. He’s not sure whether to feel cheated or relieved.

The Murdoch within him wants nothing more than to repeat the process, hunt her down and learn her new life all over again, but Mr. Hand manages to cast aside the inclination. 

He gives up on Anna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Time to Come' - Walt Whitman


	4. and possibly I like the thrill

Whatever it is about human memories that kill his kind, Mr. Hand can feel John Murdoch’s taking effect. It’s getting harder to focus clearly on anything, and an omnipresent headache settled in the morning after Anna fled from him. Observing humans has become a chore, and besides, he’s pretty much abandoned the whole enterprise anyway.

This presents a different problem. He doesn’t really know what to do with himself. 

A couple of humans have started to recognise him as the weird guy in leather who just mills about pointlessly, never seeming to be going anywhere or doing anything. Their gossiping is oddly comforting because really it’s the first acknowledgement of his existence the human race has given him. Someone once even asked him if he needed help or directions, their hopeful, half-shy smile reminding him of Anna’s.

He tries not to think about Anna too much. He’s named the headache Murdoch, because during its more pressing moments, it drags back with it the desire to find her. At its worst, it leads him into a kind of trance, watching pornos and snuff films in his head of Anna, though she’s Emma there. 

They’re becoming increasingly graphic with each passing day; yesterday they’d devolved into high-contrast images of her splayed on a bed sobbing into the sheets whilst Murdoch had his way with her, cursing her betrayal with a knife in his hand. Mr. Hand wasn’t bothered by it before, but their progression is disturbing, and he starts to wish he could end all of this. He envies his fallen kin; at least their deaths were quick and free of loud, volatile human emotions.

Today he’s been trying to work out how to do it, end it all, if he really wants to do it at all. So far Shell Beach seems like the right place to do it. He might be devoid of a human soul, but even he can tell that the location carries some kind of deep symbolic meaning, even if its definition eludes him. 

Walking back from the pier one night, the sky pissing down rain and shuddering with cold, he catches the sound of someone crying. At first it’s so familiar that he thinks he’s slipped back into one of Murdoch’s daydreams, but then he spots the figure at the bus stop.

Sitting hunched over on the bench, Anna is crying her eyes out into a fist, her sobs ragged and angry. He stops walking. Looks at her for a long moment, considering whether or not he should approach her. Curiosity – another experience that’s new to him, and thus something he has yet to learn how to defend against – gets the best of him. 

Joining her inside the bus shelter, he takes a seat beside her, pretending to be interested in the route map tacked to the glass beside him. She catches her sobs in her throat and looks over at him, recognises him this time, and her grief turns into fury on her face. She doesn’t say anything for a long time, just glaring at him, trying to scare him off with her eyes. Though her gaze is like fire, he doesn’t feel any instinct to run. He just gazes back calmly. 

“Are you following me?” She asks eventually, wiping her eyes with the side of her hand and blinking to clear the tears. Her cheeks are stained with them, her eyes and the tip of her nose red and raw. If he was still obsessed with unlocking the secrets behind her, he’d view it as an excellent opportunity for study, but now he just feels what might be pity. Murdoch, surprisingly, is quiet, the headache dulled. 

“No,” Mr. Hand answers. “You were crying.” She looks at him like she expects him to say more, but he doesn’t know what else to say.  
“Astute observation,” she mumbles to herself, half smiling. He finds himself half smiling back. Though he can’t explain it, he doesn’t want to leave. 

“Why?” He asks, looking her over as he slips back into old habits, trying to deduce what caused this. No obvious tragedies had been orchestrated for her person. From what he can recall of their plan for Anna, she had only been meant for a nice, peaceful life, something to keep her out of the way and away from the real Murdoch. 

“Why do you care?” She quips back, defensive in the way he’s observed most humans are when they’re crying or vulnerable. This time though her anger doesn’t turn his stomach like it did before; he knows it’s not aimed at him. 

He has to think about the question for a moment, however. “Because I don’t know the answer,” he says, not quite sure that’s right, but figuring that it will do. She raises an eyebrow, holds her tongue for a moment, and then sighs.  
“The person I was seeing left me,” she says, and then laughs. “For a blonde, if you can believe it.” She puts her head back in her hands. “The worst part is it’s such a cliché.” 

Mr. Hand knows what he’s supposed to say. Humanity is convenient that way, with a great many conventions in place for dealing with difficult or emotional situations. None of them would be true, however; he’s not even remotely sorry that the real Murdoch left her. Murdoch the headache is rejoicing.

“I don’t know why I’m so upset,” she continues with a sigh. “I haven’t known him for a long time, and we weren’t even that close. I just… it felt like I had.”  
“That’s not uncommon,” Mr. Hand says with a nod of his head, well aware of the tiresome imperfections in the tuning system. Though he’s only stating fact, she gives him a wry smile, as if his words had been ones of comfort. “I’m sorry you’re upset,” he says as he watches her smile, watching it widen as he speaks. 

“That’s kind of you,” she says, looking down at her hands. Kindness is another thing Mr. Hand and the Strangers never understood, but sitting there being praised, Mr. Hand almost thinks he gets it. The compliment makes him feel good, satisfied, something foreign to the life of a Stranger. “Hey,” she says, interrupting his moment of internal investigation. “You want to come back to my place?” 

He looks up at her. Almost goes to ask her what she means, before the years of human studies come back and he knows what she means, the literal and the implied. Murdoch awakens in his head, alerted to the very real opportunity this poses. It’s difficult for Mr. Hand to see past that to what he should do, and what he thinks beyond the aroused desperation of Murdoch. 

“Yes,” he answers, and Murdoch screams triumph in the back of his skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'i like my body when it is with your' - e.e. cummings


	5. of under me you so quite new

Back at her apartment, Anna slips off her coat and hangs it up upon a stand, gesturing for Mr. Hand to do the same. He does so, watching as she treads down the hall, flicking the lights on and kicking off her heels.

She vanishes into the kitchen and returns with two dry martinis, handing one over to him. With an apologetic smile that he’s learned to copy from humans, he refuses it; he wants to stay in control, because the alternative is letting the murderer in the back of his skull loose. Judging by the enthusiastic creativity the headache is currently demonstrating through inventive new ideas, Murdoch is far more eager than he is to take advantage of the situation.

“Suit yourself,” Anna says with a shrug, throwing back both drinks in a brisk, businesslike manner. She retires the glasses to the sink, bringing a half empty bottle of white wine back with her as she continues down the hall. Though Mr. Hand has never been in the position before, he’s watched this happen enough times to know that he is to follow her.

She moves into the bedroom and clicks on the light, illuminating the intimate space. The room is small and dimly lit, a window on the far side looking out across the city street night. Someone in the apartment above is playing slow jazz music, their voice rich and black, the sultry tone almost uncanny in how well it fits the situation. Anna pays it no mind, however, setting the bottle down on the bedside table.

Reaching round her back, she pulls down the zipper on the black cocktail dress she’s wearing, exposing the edges of her shoulder blades as the material parts down the middle. She glances back at Mr. Hand. Says nothing, but raises an eyebrow, both as a question and an invitation.

Sexual intercourse was, naturally, a subject of intense study for the Strangers. Their own species reproduced in a very different manner, and so sex amongst humans was viewed as a key pathway of investigation to the soul. All branches of human life seemed to link to it, from their literature to their psychology to their dreams.

Subsequently, Mr. Hand has been privy to studying it numerous times, and he knows well the practices encompassed within it, along with the science behind it. Never, however, had he ever anticipated that he might become a participant in it.

Accepting the invitation now seems stupid; certain reactions and emotions will be required from him if he proceeds, and he can’t imagine himself being capable of providing them. However, as he watches her bend over and pour herself a glass of wine, the back of her dress splitting further and slipping over one of her shoulders, he feels a warmth spread in the base of his stomach, his muscles tensing.

Murdoch knows this feeling well, and is even more experienced with what followed it in the past. Now though, having his input on the moment feels more invasive than ever. Ashamed, Mr. Hand tries to silence his gratified recollections of all the times he bedded Anna-as-Emma, the memories suddenly able to recall perfectly ever curve of her body.

Picking up the wine glass, Anna turns and leans back against the bedside table, eyeing him. Her new memories mean she doesn’t see him as the man who tried to kidnap her once husband, but rather as a stranger, instead of a Stranger. Whilst previously the hollowing of the title had unsettled him, Mr. Hand finds he welcomes the new freedom his lack of an identity gives him; to her, he can now be anything.

Slowly, he approaches her. He touches a hand to her neck, brushing his fingers down across the skin-bound muscles there, and he slips the remaining strap of her dress from her shoulder. She says nothing, her expression unchanging as she watches him. She’s beautiful, he knows that, has always known that in the generic, scientific sense, but in such close proximity and with her eyes unchangingly locked on him, he finally feels it.

Moving out of his head, he responds only to that feeling, still a little cautious of reckless abandon and allowing John Murdoch to dictate his actions, but willing to experiment. Gentle, he removes her dress. Anna steps out of it when it falls to the ground at her feet, kicking it aside. She stands before him in her underwear, black lace and flattering, and after a moment she leans forwards and kisses him.

From there it’s all action and reaction. He kisses her back, hands caressing her waist and hips and soon stripping her of the lace. She has some trouble with the complexity of the straps on his clothing, but eventually he stands before her naked and she looks back at him in such a manner that he feels _wanted_. His automatic response is to stop and dissect the feeling, but there’s not time for that, and taking his hand she pulls him onto the bed and away from his thoughts.

It’s all so new, though he’s seen it be done a hundred times. He finds that being in the moment is so different from observing it. He never knew that human skin tastes like warmth when you kiss it, his lips sliding across her abdomen as she lies back on the bed, her back arching. He’s watched all varieties of couples as they pant, breathless and heady, but never had the sensation of being the one to cause such reactions, to be able to elicit a gasp with one carefully placed touch. It is all completely intoxicating.

He dares not penetrate her though, for even as he loses himself in the stimulation of the new and unknown, he can still feel Murdoch itching to implement his ideals. The film playing that night is one of Murdoch fucking her senseless with his cock, dominating her all the while, until he moves in on the grand finale of her death. For the first time, Mr. Hand fears for Anna’s life.

So instead he tries out a different approach. Softly, he parts her legs, kissing down to the base of her thighs. By now she’s slick and wet, and the guard she’d carefully maintained discarded. Her fingers touch his jaw lightly and lower to brush against his hand, which grips into her hips. As he lowers his lips to the base between her thighs she moans quietly, her words intangible though he understands their meanings perfectly as one strained syllable melts into another.

Using his tongue as he has seen countless others do, he licks into her. The taste is strange though not unpleasant, but it cannot compare to the noise she makes in response. Murdoch can’t get a thought in edgeways when she’s like this, Mr. Hand fascinated, caught between staring in a daze and continuing with his tongue.

He presses deeper and her hips buck against his touch, bringing them closer. He spots her fingers knotted into the bed sheets, clinging on as her breathing quickens in unison with the pace of his tongue. “Fuck,” she whispers breathlessly, her head tilted back, her eyes closed. The flush of her cheeks and skin is beautiful. He almost forgets what he is doing as he just drinks in the sight of her, his head quiet for one rare moment.

Then, with a final deepening push of his tongue, she shudders, tightening around him, her back and hips bucking up. Her muscles shiver with a heated groan, trembling. For the first time, he finds himself emulating her wordless moans, sighing softly against her skin as just listening to her draws him in. She’s warm and smooth against him, and despite the killer in the back of his head, he feels secure.

Closing her legs and rubbing them against one another, chasing the afterglow of the orgasm, she’s quiet for a fair few minutes before sitting up. Retrieving the wine glass from the bedside table, she fills it, emptying the bottle, and then half drains the glass. She hands it over to him; this time, he accepts. Though she barely touched him, he still finds himself shaking, now able to think through what they have just done.

Silent, she watches him finish off the wine, and then puts the glass back for him. “You can stay for the night, if you want,” she offers, casual, as if he hadn’t just gone down on her. Numb and speechless, he just nods in response, still able to taste her on his tongue. She smiles. Leaning over, she gives him a short kiss on the cheek and then rolls over to one side of the bed, clambering under the sheets.

Practically collapsing backwards, he lies besides her, staring at the ceiling. Though he can remember it with absolute clarity, he almost can’t believe that what just happened was not one of Murdoch’s memories. He glances over and sees her lying naked beside him, and then returns to looking at the ceiling.

“Night,” she mumbles, yawning. She turns off the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again the chapter title is from 'I like my body when it is with your' - e.e. cummings


	6. A sort of walking miracle

Mr. Hand doesn’t sleep, but if he did, he’d find himself being rudely awoken just around dawn.

Anna sits up with a gasp. She’s been tossing and turning all night, mumbling nonsensically into her pillow. A thin layer of sweat covers her body, and even in the dim light making it through the crappy curtains, he can still discern that she’s pale, slightly green around the face. 

Sitting up, drawing her knees into herself, she doesn’t look at him, just stares straight ahead panting. He gives her a moment to compose herself before asking, “You are alright, yes?”  
“Yeah,” she mutters, massaging the bridge of her nose. “Go back to sleep.”

He sits up. She sighs, rubbing at her face, and he realises she’s been crying though she made no noise in her sleep. “Before you ask, I don’t even remember it, so no, I don’t want to talk about it.”  
“Understood.”

Slipping out of bed, she grabs a cheap, synthetic kimono wrap from the floor and slips it on, knotting the waist. “Coffee?”  
“Please.” He’s acquired a taste for it from sitting at the café and watching her. Even though he doesn’t know if she still works there, he sometimes goes back just for the coffee. It’s awful, he knows that, bitter as the late Mr. Books was, but still satisfying in some way. 

She vanishes, leaving him alone in the half-light to continue where he left off before she awoke. Lying on the bed sheets, still able to smell the sweat from the night before, he closes his eyes. 

Murdoch is furious. 

How dare Mr. Hand deny him his one wish, when they were so close? It would have been so easy. The headache observes the wine bottle on the table, tries to tell him how simple it would be to break it against the wall and slice the bitch’s throat with it. It promises Mr. Hand that he could have his way with Anna as many times as he liked before ending her lonely, miserable life. 

Bored of the macabre gore, he ignores the headache and thinks instead back to the warmth of thighs and the silk softness of skin. He knows that there are so many labels to be assigned to thoughts and feelings, and analysis to be done, but for now he just wants to savour it all in its raw state. 

He’s never felt so human in his life.

This time, he understands better what that means. Even though he couldn’t describe it or instruct others in how to find it, he gets it. It lingers in his muscles and creeps up through his bones. It’s in how he can smell her perfume on his skin, and taste her on his tongue. He doesn’t want to let it go.

“Here,” she says, returning and handing him a steaming mug of coffee. They drink their separate drinks together in the morning quiet, no birdsong ever around in this city. “Last night was a one time thing by the way,” she informs him, taking a sip.  
“Understood.”

She looks at him again with that same puzzled, cautious expression as earlier, and then smiles, shaking her head. “However,” she continues, and she stands. She doesn’t finish her sentence for a while, searching around her room and scribbling something down. “Here is the number for the landline.” She hands him a torn piece of paper, a number scrawled there in black ink, signed ‘Anna’. 

“Thank you,” he says curtly, because she keeps looking at him with expectation.  
“Can’t I have yours?” She asks, wafting the steam of the coffee across her face.  
“Why?” She laughs.  
“So I can call you if I decide I don’t want this to be a one time thing. I’m not looking for anything serious though.” Sitting herself down on the bed she runs a hand back through her hair. “One heartbreak a month is quite enough.”

He thinks about that for a moment. “I’m your ‘booty call’, yes?” He asks, because humans only ever seem to refer to these things with metaphors and euphemisms. To his surprise, she breaks out into a peal of laughter, nearly spilling her coffee as her head flops forwards, her chest shaking.  
“Yes, I suppose you could say that, if you want to be crude,” she agrees, grinning from ear to ear and looking at him with a warmth she never once showed the night before. 

“Come on,” she says, taking his hand. Gently, she pulls him from the bed, before throwing his clothes onto his lap. “I’ll make you breakfast.” Smiling in a coy, teasing fashion that is far from her usual abashed expression, she lingers at the door. He watches her unwaveringly as she glances to the veiled window and then slips from the room. 

Murdoch has no power in this moment. All Mr. Hand can think about is her. 

Smiling into his mug of coffee, he can’t quite bring himself to regret any of this. He made her laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Lady Lazarus' - Sylvia Plath


End file.
